


Get Away

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Sherlock returns to one of his old drug dens to hunt a killer.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: Sherlock Challenge





	Get Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This is my January 2020 entry for the Sherlock Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt is **bolthole**. Thanks to Fabricdragon for getting me on the right track with this prompt.

**Get Away**

Sherlock hated when investigations led to drug dens that he was altogether too familiar with. Gimp’s was probably one of the worst places he’d frequented although if he’d ever been out of money, this was the place he’d visit and always be assured of getting a hit. That evening, he was hunting a murderer.

Four prostitutes, all dead from overdoses, all of them had been in extremely poor condition before they died: thin and showing signs of malnutrition. All had probably taken heroin from the same batch. The heroin had been cut with caffeine and fentanyl. The latter augmented the high and the danger while the former masked the signs of an overdose. Based on where they had been found, Gimp was the likely source.

He made his way through the dark alley that led to the door marked Kirby Wholesale Goods and knocked. Old Charlie opened the door. Old Charlie had been old when Sherlock had first started going there and it seemed as though he hadn’t aged a day. “Charlie,” he murmured.

“Sherlock,” Old Charlie said and grinned broadly. “How’s you?” Sherlock nodded and wished he hadn’t come alone but this wasn’t the place to bring John. Jim had a business meeting and he tended to become trigger happy around dealers. “It’s been too long, friend,” Old Charlie continued and then coughed.

“You should do something about that cough,” Sherlock suggested, as he had since the first day he’d met Old Charlie.

“I will, I will.” Old Charlie waved him in. “One of these days, when I ain’t broke.” The bottle was Old Charlie’s weakness.

Sherlock shook his head as he started walking in. “Gimp in?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s in,” Old Charlie said and coughed again. “In the backroom but he should be out soon enough.”

Sherlock walked into the main room, past people sitting on the worn furniture, past the darkened side rooms, past addicts lost in their own world, and memories of his own personal hell flooded his mind. The air was dank with the smells of sweat, smoke, sex, and humanity at its lowest points and it brought Sherlock back to the present. _Never again_. His work with John for the Yard and his relationship with Jim Moriarty were all the highs he needed.

Sherlock stopped short in front of the office door as he heard hushed words in Gimp’s recognizable northern accent and someone who sounded posh, not quite like Mycroft, but close. They were words from Sherlock’s past: heroin, accusations, kids dying, fentanyl. It seemed he’d deducted correctly. He pushed the door open forcefully.

Both men jumped and then Gimp smiled that greasy lascivious smile that Sherlock hated. “Sherrrrlllllock,” he drawled while leering at him. “Have you come back home?” The other man seemed nervous. Gimp continued, “I’ve missed your pretty… face. It’s good to see you.”

“I’ll be on my way and have some sent to you,” the posh sounding man said and then tried to walk past Sherlock.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I’m here investigating the deaths of four prostitues known to live, and work in the area. It seems you gentlemen may have some information for me.” He glared at the man trying to leave. “Especially _you_.” 

Both men’s eyes widened. Gimp took a few steps back. “Now, Sherlock, we don’t know what you’re talking about. Kids die all the time. It ain’t anyone’s fault.” The posh man charged at Sherlock in an attempt to break out of the room. 

Sherlock was ready and threw three quick jabs at the man’s torso and shoved him back into the room. “It would be in your best interest to tell me the truth,” he said coolly.

“Now, now, Sherlock,” Gimp said sleazily. “How about I give you a nice freebie and we’ll forget this ever happened?”

“I am an upstanding member of society and my brother is a peer,” the Posh man sneered. “I will have you arrested and thrown in jail if you do not get out of my way.”

“A brother who is a peer,” Sherlock said. “Interesting and very identifiable.”

“This is getting out of haaaand,” Gimp whined. “Nobody here meant to do anything. We’re helping folks out. You know that, Sherrrrrlllllock. Let me get you a nice sample.”

Sherlock was about respond when he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Needle. He turned, attempting to stop the assailant but then Posh struck him and he felt himself being injected. Posh pushed past him as he staggered back. “A little heroin’ll fix ya,” a voice with a Scottish accent said. “Calm ya right down.” His head started spinning and he was shoved to the floor hard.

“I heard him say he wants to try the new stuff too,” Gimp sneered.

Keeping both the Scot and Gimp in his line of sight, Sherlock struggled to get to his feet. Whatever he’d been given had affected him fairly quickly and he needed to get out. He grabbed Gimp’s chair and swung it to get first Gimp and then Scot out of his way. He had to get away.

Sherlock staggered out of the office as fast as he could. Scot wasn’t drugged so he was the biggest threat. Most everyone else was high so he wasn’t worried about them. He sank into his mind palace and tried to remember the secret way out. One, two doors on the left, turn right, room with a small Kokopelli painted on it. He yanked the door open and shouted, “Police!” 

The occupants screamed and raced past him, blocking Scot from coming in. Sherlock slammed the door shut and locked it. The lock wasn’t all that good and Gimp had a key but he needed just a little bit of time. His breathing was ragged and his head was spinning. He had to get out fast.

Far corner, three panels down on the left wall. His fingers slipped in between the panels and he yanked left. It moved a little but then the door crashed in with Scot behind it. Sherlock remembered that he’d brought the shiny new Sig that Jim had given him. This might be a good time to use it. As Scot charged him, he pulled the gun from his coat, pointed and shot just as he was tackled to the ground.

Sherlock rolled the man off of him, threw up, shot the man one more time for good measure even though his vision was blurry, and then yanked the panel again. He had to get out and there was what he needed. Bolthole to the sewers below.

Ducking his head, Sherlock took a few steps down into the bolthole, put the gun away, and pulled the panel shut behind him. There was a set of stairs that led to the sewers. He took a few more steps but then lost his balance, slipped, and fell down half a dozen steps before he was able to clumsily grip the wall enough to balance himself. Sitting down, he took a deep breath and tried to calm his heart rate. He was so tired but he had to get out.

“Keep moving,” he muttered to himself. That mantra had saved him during many a near overdose. “Stopping is death.” He reached inside his coat for his small torch. It made enough light that he wasn’t completely blind in the dark. After pulling himself to his feet, he carefully walked down the rest of the stairs. There were no sounds of pursuit but he kept walking as quickly as he could.

His head was still spinning and it was getting harder to walk but Sherlock didn’t stop. He remembered the way. He’d done this so many times before, so many years ago, high as a kite, to end up at the front door of his old flat. Keep moving. 

Sherlock turned left at the yellow sluice gate valve. It seemed to be mocking him. Twelve rights. Sherlock remembered telling Mycroft he was still alive because he could count to twelve even when stoned out of his mind. This was different; he didn’t know exactly what heroin or how much he’d been injected with. Keep moving.

It seemed as though he’d been walking for an eternity when he saw a bench. Probably for the workers. He knew he should keep walking but he wanted to rest for just a moment. Just a few seconds. No, best not.

Suddenly he remembered that there had never been a bench on the way to his flat before. Realizing that he must have missed the twelfth turn, Sherlock took a deep breath, eyed the bench longingly, and started walking back and counting. After he counted the seventeenth alley, he found the yellow sluice gate valve. “My old friend,” he murmured and turned around once more. 

_Twelve_. This time he walked ever so slowly but with his eyes closed and his arm extended. His fingers grazed the wall. This was how he’d done it before, when he was too high to see well. One. They were so far apart. Two. He remembered last night’s dinner with Jim and John. They had argued. The fish and chips had been good. He’d ordered extra chips for Jim, his little Irish potato. Three. His stomach lurched and he paused to dry heave. “I suppose it’s good that I got it all out before,” he said in his poshest imitation of Mycroft and then chuckled before continuing to walk. 

Four. Mycroft had four cases he wanted to assign to Sherlock. One involved the mafia in Cinque Terre on the Italian Riviera. Jim had volunteered to help with that one. Five. Six. They were getting further apart or he was slowing down. Seven. Pausing, Sherlock noted that it hadn’t seemed to take this long the last time he’d walked this route but his head felt as though it was finally starting to clear.

Taking another deep breath, he resumed walking. Eight. “Don’t be late,” he said in Jim’s sing-song voice. Nine. He heard footsteps. “Oh no,” he groaned and forced himself to open his eyes. Jim. Sherlock collapsed against the wall and prayed that it wasn’t a hallucination.

“Sherlock!” Jim yelled and Sherlock found himself in his lover’s arms. “God, you’re an awful mess.” Definitely not a hallucination. “Are you hurt?” Jim asked while texting rapidly with one hand.

“I was drugged,” Sherlock blurted out and let himself melt into Jim. It was safe there. “Heroin.. probably the stuff cut with fentanyl…”

“Bastards. It’ll be a pleasure to take care of them. Let’s get you out of here,” Jim said as he started leading Sherlock forward. “I’ve let big brother know I’ve got you and we’ll need medical and narcan.”

“I’m doing better than I was before. I kept walking. What are you doing here?”

“Mycroft panicked when he found out that you’d gone off alone,” Jim explained. “He sent me a barrage of texts that was damn near impossible to ignore.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “I thought you’d mastered the art of ignoring my brother?”

“I have,” Jim replied. “But I was worried too; I had a bad feeling. I suspected you’d gone to one of your old haunts. When I got to Gimps and saw the chaos, I knew you’d used the bolthole and were probably headed to your old home.”

“I did tell you about that.”

“Yes, but I do know my way around the sewers as well. Westwood notwithstanding, they’re great for escaping annoying minor government officials.” 

“That they are,” Sherlock agreed. “Once I’m cleared and we get a cuppa or two, would you care to help me make some arrests. It might get... messy.”

“My pleasure,” Jim purred and pulled Sherlock close.


End file.
